O muse of art, thou vision born of perfect grace,
A lady fair, whose beauty none can name,
Thy gentle hands do carve in time a place
Where all that’s bright is born from thy pure flame.
With every stroke, thou paint'st the perfect dream,
Thy lips untouched, yet whispering soft and true,
Each curve and line a tale that dares to gleam
As though the very stars had seen thee through.
Thy eyes, a mirror of the heaven's light,
A depth so vast no mortal heart could hold,
Thy form, a vision born of endless night,
Where shadows breathe and secrets do unfold.
Thy skin, as soft as petals kissed by rain,
Thy spirit, woven deep in every hue,
Thy touch, a balm that heals all earthly pain,
A quiet force that stirs the soul anew.
Thy colors weave a love, both soft and bright,
Like evening's glow upon the setting sea;
Thy gaze a mirror of the starry night,
In thee, all passions find their sanctuary.
Thy hands, with grace, do mold a world divine,
Where dreams take shape and memory takes flight.
Thy voice, unspoken, fills the heart’s design,
And we, the watchers, yield to pure delight.
In thee, O Art, we see all beauty born—
As stars that glisten on the velvet sea,
As roses kissed by the first light of dawn,
As love itself, too deep for eyes to see.
Thy soul, transcendent, whispers like the breeze,
A muse eternal, floating in the night,
Thy art, a flame that kindles hearts with ease,
A beauty ever vivid, ever bright.